


God is Dead

by WoodenTroy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other bad things, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:25:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2528903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodenTroy/pseuds/WoodenTroy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had his life all figured out. His little deal with Moriarty was secure, wasn't it? When Mycroft fractures his little life-plan; Sherlock just might have to rethink things, fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, a few of the major warnings are listed but if anything else pops up I'll list that particular one before the following chapter.  
> I'm always looking to improve my style for easier reading or even just general suggestions; feel free to comment on it if you wish.
> 
> Warning for first chapter: Talk about miscarriage, drug-use, dub-con.

 

**Chapter One**

 

John Watson believed he was a specific routine kind of man. Everything has its set place in this world; we all have our book of life’s journey fully completed before birth for each one of us. It was an old philosophy; it was his mother’s philosophy. So he prided on being predictable, because that meant reliable. ‘Be good and good things will happen’, his mother’s firm advice would echo throughout certain times his life. As much as he had loved his mother, John had always been in two minds about that certain piece of advice.

 

In year four, school bully Dean Smith cracked an already tender milk tooth with a well aimed fist on his way home from school, he stumbled across the last fifty pence for Harriet’s birthday present balancing on the edge of a gutter bar; at a friend’s birthday party in year eight a group of sixth formers picked on and prodded John about his height and sub-par rugby skills—while outside getting fresh air (not sulking!) Judy Garth, a girl from his year shared his first kiss; at eighteen, fresh out off school and still unsure if he wanted attend uni; a case of mistaken identity in a crowded bar one evening resulted in him being tackled by an overzealous army recruit on leave (bruised three ribs), he would never have found out about military grants for those who wanted to practise medicine; getting ambushed in his medical transport vehicle by rebels who had thrown an IED at it ending with him getting shot in the shoulder while patching up a wounded soldier during active tour, resulting in being medically discharged, he would’ve never applied for his current residency position at St. Bart’s hospital (his old buddy Stamford supplied a glowing recommendation to the interview panel) and met his future wife Mary, a librarian whom only came in with swollen tonsils. That was just after his twenty-seventh birthday.

 

John mostly believed things worked out in the end for itself. The devastating hardships like his parents car accident in his late teens, Harry’s alcohol problem and most recently: Mary’s miscarriage, he had yet to piece together a solitary positive outlook, though he trusted in time all would be revealed as he had been taught, it was one of the few things keeping him going.

 

If anything it was the looks that really got to him, like it was his own body that suffered the trauma. After being together for a year and freshly married they decided the time was right to expand their family (Mary had been talking about children from their first date onwards, warming John up to it after a while). They tried for just under a year, doubt slowly settling in and they had just begun looking into loans to get tested when on a whim (nerves had her cycle shot to bits) double lines appeared on the test she tried one day. Overjoyed, Mary had contained herself, got it confirmed by a GP (not in Bart’s) and that evening after a long, tiring shift, John had come home to a little note resting (‘Welcome home daddy!’) beside the small plastic stick. Embarrassingly, it took John a few seconds for it to sink in, but when it did he had grabbed Mary and they had gone to the nearest Mothercare, pricing everything; that nappy changing unit he’d scoffed at before suddenly looking like a great idea to have.

 

Everything had been going so smoothly, almost too smoothly on hindsight; when out of nowhere, just seventeen weeks into the pregnancy Mary phoned his private mobile while at work, voice riddled with panic, sobbing about violent stomach cramps and bleeding; quite suddenly another chunk of John’s heart chipped away again. He had reacted hastily, phoning an ambulance for her and calling it in himself, rushing down to the ambulance dock at A&E and was ready to take action. His brain had switched onto the work mode, whatever happened, he’ll act professionally. But no mantra prepared him for the sight of his wife bent over gasping for breath, crying helpless tears when he’d pulled open the ambulance doors and they got the news right there by the soft-spoken paramedic in that cold mechanical cab their baby hadn’t even made it to the hospital, the tiny erratic heartbeat had diminished slowly during the ride and there was nothing to be done; nothing that John could’ve done even if they’d made it in time. They may try again...eventually. For now though, he’d have to endure those pitying glances and sad smiles from colleagues and his regular, gossipy patients.

 

“How are you feeling, love?” John asked, tossing his keys into the bowl set by the front door (on the same table that held the note just five months ago). He acknowledged the cross on the wall with a respectful gentle tap over his heart with middle and pointer fingers and walked the very short distance to their couch (central London flats being way to over budget for more than a three roomed flat, they had been discussing a mortgage before, well, before). John kissed the top of his wife’s golden head, one of the few exposed areas peeping out from her fluffy Primark robe. John swiped the empty cup from the magazine littered coffee table and placed it in the sink for rinsing later.

 

The combine kitchen, hall, dining and living area was just barely bigger than the size of an average bedroom, give or take a few strategic coves and cubby holes. The two seated leather couch and tiny dining table seemed to steal over half the open space; still, it was as many an estate agent would call it: cosy. Plus, it was the only place in reasonable travel distance from their works they could afford.

 

“All I’ve done is scoff biscuits and crisps, drink tea and watch Jeremy Kyle; if that’s not a productive day down the hatch then I’ve forgotten what is.” Mary sighed and stretched lengthways, she pushed the heel of the palms against her eye sockets. “When can I return to work? Its been two weeks now.”

 

“Just another couple of days, doctor’s orders.” He filled the kettle and flipped the switch. “Procedure says I should recommend a therapist.”

 

“I know, I know. I don’t need that. I’ve accepted… John, what I need is the monotony of everyday life, back to sorting books and telling folks we do not supply earphones so they can listen to yestube, or whatever it’s called. Talking to some stranger who’s paid to pretend they care never helped anyo- Oh, god, I’m so sorry John.”

 

“It’s okay, I happen to agree with you.” The recommend therapist he was assigned with after being discharged, Ella, was never any help for his shattered psyche. In fact, it seemed attending the sessions made him feel worse. There’s nothing quite like trying to forget an event and someone calmly blathers out ‘so how are you adjusting to being shot close range and now have to endure yobs laughing at you while you struggled up the tube station stairs coming to this pointless appointment?’ Well, she didn’t quite word it that way, but it damn felt like it. Mary’s done more for him, mentally and physically wise than all his ten sessions (two a week) combined before he just stopped attending. Why, soon after he met her his walking aid was banished to the back of his closet, along with his usual aches.

 

“It’s these stupid meds they have me on. I open my mouth and my first thought falls out. By the way, Harry called this morning,” _Oh god_. “Clara’s walked out on her again and she wants you to come over tonight, but she won’t notice if you leave it. She was in a right mess.”

 

“That out of it?”

 

“I could barely make out a coherent word. I’m sorry, but she phones nearly every day, like we’re best pals. I’m not saying she’s a bad person, but the last time I tried to bond with her we went for coffee and retail therapy she knocked over a rack in tk Max—she had been topping up her latte with a small vodka bottle in her purse. That was last month. I don’t like saying it about your sister, she’s family. But she doesn’t want to be helped.”

 

“I don’t need reminding of her demons. In the end there’s only one person who can help her. She won’t listen to me, never has. ‘I can do everything through him who gives me strength.’”

 

“Phil 4:13.” They quoted in unison. John smiled and gently caressed his fingers through his wife’s soft tresses. “Let’s light a candle for her tonight at the church, and then I’m defiantly returning to work Monday John, no more arguments.”

 

He knew in his heart that she needed normalcy again, but he couldn’t help but desire to shroud her from the world, they’d light a candle for their unborn daughter’s memory and hopefully tomorrow, their life will return to what it was over a year and a half ago. He won’t bring up trying again for at least another year. “Sure love.” Their never-to-be daughter was with god now.

 

***

 

He submerged into sweet euphoria; dead limbs soared with life once again. All thoughts ascended as his transport failed him, falling back against the soiled sheets. The ridiculously high thread count scratching over sensitised skin, freeing him of some burdensome itch. Thin, confident fingers played with his sweat dampened hair, teasing up the dank curls that had pressed to his scalp.

 

“Still feels that good, does it honey?” The soft Dublin accent filtered, interrupting his thoughts. He didn’t bother responding. The band was loosened from his arm and more of that delirious release rushed into him, almost overwhelming him to the point of nausea, but one deep inhale sorted that problem out.

 

The other softly chuckled, “I’ll leave you to it then, bye love.” An intruding wet kiss was placed on his forehead by thin, recently moistened lips. His body was bent over him, the warmth of his weight radiating a persistent heat. Just as the man moved backwards he went to swat the person away a little too late, his hand overshooting, hitting nothing, losing strength and falling bonelessly by his own head.

 

There’d be a few moments before the primordial fog cleared off and his limbs were able to function again, so Sherlock just laid there, lazily basking in the familiar haze. One he had years of experience riding along with. The usual aches would leave much too soon and the tedious chore of scrubbing the client’s filth off his skin and cleaning himself out would begin. He really detested it when they came while inside him—it cost extra for that little perk, he’d made sure to demand that at the start. The bedding would need to be stripped and replaced, there was an unidentified disgusting wet patch pressed against the shell of his ear. At least he wasn’t responsible for removing the stains; Mistress Adler had an army of staff at her disposal. He relaxed his body and let his mind drift away.

 

The telltale creak of the blasted bottom hinge altered him to awareness some time later, but not too long. Sharp thin heels clicked steadily on the cherry wood floor over his way and the throat clogging stench of Chanel no. 5 replaced the recently refreshed clean air; he knew immediately who it was. And they were only a bother to him at this point of his high, and she certainly knew that much, and probably revelled in her little, childish game.

 

“Miss Adler.” He greeted with little enthusiasm and forced open his eyes, the smooth plain ceiling distorting above him, little circles doing ringlets; it made his eyelids ache, so he closed them again. The woman sighed heavily. He wanted her to say her piece and shove off, like she normally does.

 

Instead of talking, two smooth fingertips set down on his knee and marched steadily to his protruding hipbone, stopping to draw random circles on his slender thigh. His nudity didn’t bother him at all, this person had examined and mapped every crevice and mole of his naked flesh the day he joined her business. His “interview” as she had put it back then.

 

“In the bedroom I’m formally known as Mistress, my pet. Oh dear...what I could do to this skin given the chance. It’s such a shame you enjoy destroying it another, more unsightly way.” He hissed as she poked the fresh puncture on his outstretched arm with her other hand. The angry entry wound evenly blended in with the several other silver and pink scars that told a grim story about years of addiction, and just flounced, without shame for any in the room to see if they walked in.

 

The digits continued to glide their merry path along his small thigh, gently dipping between his limp, sprawled legs, edging along and then behind his testicles and easily accessing his perineum. She rubbed the natural small ridge back and forth; hoping to elect some response, as usual Sherlock kept control of his arousal like a flip of a switch. Irene recalled spending many of his sessions listening without shame at his door, her fingers dipping helplessly into her own warmth as she silently matched Sherlock’s wanton moans of passion, shrieks of delight or soft pliable whimpering, all an act for the client of course. Such a marvellous actor, tailoring his persona to each client and playing them as beautifully as that Stradivarius kept in the arts room.

 

Electing no response but deep, bored, disinterested groans, Irene moved on just a bit lower between his thighs, ignoring the sticky dried sweat and lube and pressed lightly against the tender muscle. This time Sherlock protested with a grumble as Irene slowly massaged the pink, stretched entrance in calming circular motions. Sherlock spread his knees and threw an arm over his eyes, feigning disinterest. Irene stopped her little ‘massage’; using her index and middle fingers she pressed on both sides of his entrance, teasing some of the client’s release out of him.

 

She watched in vain interest how the cloudy fluid dribbled from his now twitching hips, between the slim valley of his bum like a steady river and dripped onto the crimson, silk covers. She watched as the small droplets formed swells on the cover before being absorbed into the threads; it still wasn’t good enough for her. Without any warning, she closed her fingers and pushed them inside to feel his inner muscles; the lithe, not completely willing but too lazy to stop her body tensed and Irene pinched her blood red lip between gleaming perfect teeth.

 

She couldn’t resist the temptation now she had him like this, so she pressed her sharp nails against his still sensitive, engorged prostate. She hoped to elect a wail of delight, just something; even a part of that convincing act he put on for the men, but all she got back was an unsexy whimper, his knees beginning to quiver with nothing to do with pleasure. She still wasn’t getting any fun from this man; it’d been snatched away, so she made a sound of disapproval and removed her fingers. The body relaxed and Sherlock rolled sideways, his back to her and pulled his body upwards, snuggling deeper into the sheets, an unvoiced order for her dismissal. Her obvious pursuits ignored, yet again.

 

She looked down at him in annoyance, curled up on the sweat and come encrusted bed like he wasn’t in his own created illusion of self-importance. It was borderline pathetic. She did everything for this lazy sod, even from day one. Letting him into her business and even allowing him to screen most of his own clients, all she wanted was a final attempt, something to show he even acknowledged her efforts; Jim was right, she was wasting her time by being here.

 

Her most on demand whore took remarkable patience to deal with, one that had tested both hers and Jims patience for just over a year now, but not anymore. He’d screwed up big-time, and without even knowing it. Without instigating the motions consciously. Sadly now his fate was already sealed, and the result wasn’t going to be pretty. She took one reserved step back from the form on the bed. What’s done is done. Time to play mistress one last time, he’d never have seen her as more than that; sadly, that was her own delusion to contend with. “You haven’t even cleaned yourself yet. Wilkes left over thirty minutes ago.”

 

Sherlock waved his hand noncommittally, voice muffled by his cover. “Later...” Irene stepped forward and placed moist fingers along his bottom lip, sliding corner to corner on the plump skin; without resistance, they were pushed harshly into his mouth, resting just passed his uvular. Sherlock tried to ignore them; the woman was constantly attempting to achieve some sort of rise out of him, but they moved slightly, alike his tongue was being petted, perhaps like someone wiping away filth from their fingers. They tasted strange, unusual, unlike her usual coconut hand-cream, an almost foul-like hint, like...no...that disgusting bitch! He threw his head to the side; the fingers pulled out and rolled onto his knees; spitting numerous times onto the sheets, hocking deep, ridding his tongue of the unsavoury aftertaste.

 

“My my, aren’t you just the image of proprietary. I’d love to be here for pleasure, my hopeless ever quest; but I’m afraid it’s business.” Sherlock Holmes, sexy, intelligent, destructive (self—mostly) and no concept of beauty. The only man she’d willingly hike up her skirt for and ride like a grand national champion.

 

“For god’s sake, I said later! Leave me!” Sherlock turned to her, glaring his most iciest look at the nonchalant woman lingering at the edge of his bed. Usually his more oppressive looks sent the assistants scampering for the door, but Irene always thought that glare, while her whore was riding the waves of his high, looked like a kitten opening its eyes to the world for the first time: mismatched, confused and clouded. It was such an ugly look for a pretty face.

 

Irene crossed her arms over her tight Westwood evening gown, a long plain charcoal ensemble; sleeveless with a suggestive slit along the right side from thigh to ankle. “No, this will happen now, love,” The usual endearment sounding like a cuss. “James tells me his birdies were singing a very particular tune recently. Know who about? Mycroft Holmes-”

 

“Ugh.” Sherlock threw backwards onto the bed with all the flair of a pantomime queen, and none of the grace, “What has the fat bastard done now? He said he’d leave me alone.”

 

“Oh, ‘Ice man’ has never caused problems before, well that was before his own little spies found out not only was his little brother a drug addict – that he was happy enough to accept as long as it didn’t interfere with his career. But it turns out we have a mole that revealed you are selling yourself also. In retaliation he’s taken the Dublin house offline. The raid was this morning. Forty seven people joining the dole queue babes. The main problem is that it was in Jimmy’s home field. He’s upset—to put it very, very mildly.”

 

Odd, the Irish man didn’t seem at all put out earlier when he came to give Sherlock his usual evening fix, going about with the same soft smiles, same flirting. It wasn’t always Moriarty that administered it; Sherlock was more than capable of finding his own vein. Just Jim had expressed he found the process fascinating. Has his anticipation for his fix outweighed his natural ability to deduce; but that been the original intent three years ago when he took that first dose though, wasn’t it? Dulling his senses, holding in his hands the ability to either switch off or focus intently, all with the aid of one little chamber of liquid. The addiction and the urge was a necessary side-effect he had (irresponsibly?) thought wouldn’t hinder his abilities too much.

 

Just why wasn’t the usual fog clearing!? Normally he could have cognitive control over his stupid limbs by now, was something wrong? His arms failed to move as he tried to stretch them, held down by what felt like lead weights. And his stomach has seemed to have made a new home in his throat, making him more nauseous than an initial hit.

 

“If only you took Jim’s offer of his bed at the start of all this to pay for your debts instead of welcoming lust driven, power frenzied pigs fuck you. Though I hear firsthand Moran, your soon after replacement, is fantastic. So Jim has had a change of heart about letting you stay here, especially after your brother’s thoughtless actions and today he gave you a double concentrated dose.” The fog started to storm in, all shades of grey blinding and razor sharp. Fuck, he needed to get out of this ditch. He forced down rising bile and willed his useless legs to move. With desperate force he thrust his body to the floor, unwelcome panic seeping into his every pore. Adrenaline, the fight or flight chemical was produced with furious intensity, combined with shock it made terrible bed partners. The urges combined, he wanted to fight and hide at the same time.

 

The hardwood floor panelling felt like searing coals as he slumped into a rather ungainly pile. All limbs pressed painfully as his core temperature soared. All sense of self control was abandoned and suddenly his head was rolling around in his meagre breakfast and stinking stomach juices, prompting more retching, his middle trembling and cold now. Sherlock willed all his fast ebbing away energy and pushed into an unsteady crouch, only managing to splutter before falling backwards flat, head slamming hard back onto the sticky puddle on the floor, but he didn’t feel any pain. His long, bare arms almost seemed to move by themselves, scrambling around like frenzied octopus limbs to gain purchase—on what? _For what?_ , his ever witty mind mocked back at him from a void distance.

 

This _life_ , poisoning his veins with cocaine to wrangle control of his oppressive neural activity while in between those times being used as some cheap whore, was that all he amounted too? In his final, painful breaths, had he never amounted to more than a waste of oxygen in this huge world, bursting with improbable opportunities? _Ugh_ , he was obscenity sanctimonious on his death bed—floor. That thought though; he never one nor tried to make a beautiful human, what chance would he make a beautiful corpse? Overdose, after-all, wasn’t the most sightly of deaths. He continued to roll around, his body becoming weightless before dropping like a stone back downwards; this opulent bedroom he’d spent most of the year in suddenly felt alien, and he could only laugh at that thought. He tried aloud. He choked on bile.

 

A mallet was slammed into his lungs as they maddeningly clawed for oxygen, what it actually were, was a sharp heel kicking his side, sending him onto his back. All he saw was the shining light hanging from the ceiling (always thought it was a whimsical fairytale; the light at the end) when a dark person shaped figure bent over him. Warm wisps of breath grazed his ear, it mocked, “I can’t wait to see the images of big brothers face when he hears they’ve fished you out of the themes, or just as intriguing, found in an alley, all bashed up and broken, cold and still like this heart,” A warm—too warm slim hand was placed over his chest. It felt like his heart, the arteries and veins were hanging on single thin threads, lassoing it to the cavity inside him lest it burst out. “You never had a heart, Sherlock, just empty chambers. If you can even hear this, I actually am sorry it had to end this way. But...no...choice... Bye.”

 

Sherlock struggled for that last slip of consciousness, his attention fraying, and head like a stone. The dark figure moved away and, sharp whiteness once again. He tried and failed to calculate his chances of survival—too many variables and everything ached! His mind palace was well out of reach, he tried to grasp the doors, take seclusion and hide as the last pulses of life were dragged out of him. Secure deep in its inner halls; but the handles wouldn’t open, ungraspable, covered in slick lubricant. All his synapses were on fire. If by some very small number percentage chance he managed to survive; he was going to kill Mycroft. Slowly. Sherlock Holmes, the rotten sheep, black egg—whatever the pathetic analogy was to announce to people they were the child who wasn’t truly wanted. He was the drunken night; the one who made it before his father pulled out; the misdated ovum.

 

Mummy would probably cry at his funeral, though tears of someone who smashed their second favourite mug. Mycroft would stand front and centre—expectation, not sentiment, and father? He wouldn’t even bother to leave his bed. He hardly acknowledged his second son, unless to unleash a scolding. Everyone was always at the ready to declare the reasons why Mycroft was so much more worthy to carry the Holmes title.

 

Footsteps walked away in a foreign land, permeated like his head was submerged underwater. So that’s how it ends, it’s always been. The perfect son and...the other one; best and unwanted; the government and the back-alley druggie. But…why should he even give a shi…

 

***

 

“... _Unknown... Early twenties... Overdose_.”

 

“... _found?_ ”

 

“ _Kensington gardens... Passerby... IV secure_.”

 

“... _5 mg BZD... Midazolam!_ ”

 

Hands, warm, so many, what...where? Can’t open eyes; to heavy. Flurry everywhere, rubber soled shoes dancing, twirling to the apex of beeping music and so many voices not laughing. Laying on a hard bed, rocking back and forth like a cradle on a tree-top. Mummy, I’m sorry I ruined Mikey’s graduation party. Maybe the curtain didn’t need to be on fire after all. Where are those bees? Damn buzzing around his head. Eye’s still won’t open—hold on...calloused fingers prying left eye open, wood-chip ceiling panelling—light! Get away! NO!

 

“ _Mydriasis in left pupil—rapid constriction!_ _Doctor, he’s conscious. Hello, sir?_ ”

 

Cold, need conserve heat. Stomach aches. Moving; can’t keep it down, throat spasm. Wet sliding down cheeks, back of neck getting soaked. Stinks...and again...body jumping and dancing.

 

“ _Turn him on his side!_ ” Male, commanding. Nice voice. Hello again darkness. Nothing.

 


End file.
